


Nothin' left open and no time to decide

by rosa_himmelblau



Series: The Roadhouse Blues [21]
Category: Wiseguy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-21
Updated: 2020-08-21
Packaged: 2021-03-06 14:42:03
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,929
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26030593
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rosa_himmelblau/pseuds/rosa_himmelblau
Summary: Nobody's getting abandoned.
Series: The Roadhouse Blues [21]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1069713





	Nothin' left open and no time to decide

It was surprisingly warm for a day in June. Well, not surprisingly **warm,** really; surprisingly hot. At ten-thirty in the morning, it was close to ninety degrees. Probably it had something to do with global warming.

It was too hot to be painting a house in the sun, probably, but it hadn't been when they started just after dawn.

And now they'd stopped painting. They were sitting in the shade of the house, drinking Kool-Aid and watching the dog, who didn't seem to think it was too hot to chase an old baseball around the yard.

Frank looked at his glass. Kool-Aid. Pink Swimmingo Kool-Aid, at that. Who knew they made such a thing? When he'd made Kool-Aid, it was cherry, or grape. This was a frightening shade of near-fluorescent pink that made Frank wonder if it was safe to drink.

His fifteen-year-old son seemed to like it well enough. He acted like such a—not a grown-up, but a teenager most of the time. The week before he had outlined a very well-thought-out plan for how he could get a job to help contribute to his college fund. It had stunned Frank, hearing his son talk so seriously about his future, and he'd been vastly relieved that this mature plan segued beautifully into a transparent—and typically teenage—finagle for a car when he turned sixteen in eight months. "It would make getting a job a lot easier," he explained earnestly. "A good job, I mean, one that would really pay—"

"Nice try, kiddo," Frank told him, "but fiscally impractical, since if I did buy you a car, I'd want it to be a good safe one, with airbags. And then there's insurance, and all that would be expensive, and with your concern over your college fund, I'm sure you can see that the money would be better put toward that. But that's good thinking, Drake." Frank ignored his son's disappointed face and suggested they go out for a practice drive. Drake was still kid enough that he could be distracted from unhappiness over the loss of a long-term goal by a little instant gratification.

When Frank told him he'd be repainting the house, Drake insisted on helping him. "I'm the one who still lives here," he pointed out, and Frank agreed. He knew perfectly well his son didn't really want to spend his Saturday painting the house; he wanted to spend time with his father. And Frank brought his dog along.

"When can we get back to work?" Drake asked. The dog nosed his hand, and Drake took the ball and threw it across the yard.

"Not until it cools down, sport. Your old man doesn't want heat stroke."

Drake nodded. "So you're going to stay all day?" His voice was all teenage indifference, but Frank ignored that.

"That's the plan, kiddo," he agreed. They'd already talked about baseball—Drake was thinking of trying out for the team—and girls, who had always been an enigma, but now were becoming an enigma Drake was interested in trying to understand. Frank admitted he didn't understand them either, but that as far as he could tell, a lot of experience didn't help much. Frank wondered what the next topic of conversation would be. Whatever it was, it couldn't be more complicated than girls, right?

Jenny brought out some ham sandwiches, and she didn't comment on them sitting and drinking Kool-Aid instead of painting. Maybe today would be the day they saw each other and didn't argue.

"Dad," Drake said abruptly, and then he didn't say anything else. 

"Drake," Frank answered. Maybe it **could** be more complicated than girls.

Drake smiled a little, then his smile faded. "Dad. Can I ask you a question?"

Ah, the words that struck terror in the heart of any parent. And what could you do but say, "That's what I'm here for. That, and the Kool-Aid."

The dog had come over when the sandwiches arrived. Instinctively knowing which of them would be the soft touch, he sat at Drake's feet, and his instincts proved correct: Drake was feeding him pieces of sandwich. "Would you be— Um, would you be real disappointed if I, if I, if—um, I was just ordinary?"

Frank's first instinct was to say that Drake couldn't possibly be "just ordinary," but that answer wouldn't help Drake. "It would depend how ordinary," he said seriously. "Are we talking normal, or more along the lines of truly mediocre?" At Drake's look, Frank apologized. "I'll serious up. But you know, to me you'll always be extraordinary. I'm sorry, that's just how fathers are." No need to mention that his own father had found him far below average.

Drake was shaking his head. "I'm never going to be— I can't do what you do." He picked up a new sandwich and bit into it.

Frank stayed very still. This was an important moment, and he needed to get it right. "I don't want you to do what I do," he said, just as softly. "It's a hard life, and I don't want you to have a hard life, if you can avoid it."

"You wouldn't be disappointed?" Drake asked.

"If you live your life with integrity, I can promise you I'll never be disappointed in you."

Drake was nodding, but Frank thought that he wanted out of this conversation, even if he was the one who'd initiated it. He looked down at the plate and picked up another sandwich; who in the world had Jenny thought she was feeding, the whole neighborhood? There was a whole loaf's worth of ham sandwiches on the plate. Maybe she'd been including the dog in her planning. Maybe people really did change.

"Did one of them die?" Drake asked suddenly.

Frank looked at Drake, who was rearranging the contents of his sandwich. He had no idea what his son was talking about. "Did one of who die?"

"Your agents," Drake explained. "The guys you're in charge of, they're called agents, right?"

Frank nodded. "That's right they're called agents. Field agents." Vince had been promoted, but his job was still that of a field agent, just as Frank had been promoted to supervisor, but was still acting as a field director. But there was no reason to cloud the issue, whatever it was. "No one's died, kiddo. Why would you think someone had?"

Drake shrugged and drank the dregs of his Kool-Aid. "You act like someone's died. And Mom said you needed some time to get over something, but she wouldn't say what."

Frank had built a wall between his work and his son. Not just a fence, because there was the whole secrecy aspect of his job; no, he'd built a wall. His son knew he was a federal agent, that he traveled a lot, and that he arrested criminals. What else did he know? Frank wasn't sure. He'd told Drake that his job wasn't intrinsically dangerous, but when he'd said that, had Drake understood it? Had he even know what _intrinsically_ meant? And Frank didn't know what Jenny might have said—not necessarily out of malice, but out of frustration.

He'd thought the wall was a good idea, but now— His job had started to affect their relationship—

Well, that was ridiculous. His job had always affected their relationship; how could it not? Just the fact that it took him away so often had an effect, and there had been the separations, always blamed on his job, and—

And that was just the tip of the proverbial melting iceberg.

But this was different. He'd seen far too little of Drake since Vince's disappearance, and it wasn't only because of all the time he'd spent looking for Vince. It was because he wasn't fit to be a parent. Vince was his friend—his very dear friend—but Vince was also his job.

"He's not dead," Frank said mildly. "He's missing. I don't know where he is." 

"And you've been looking for him?" Drake asked. What he meant was, is that why you haven't been around? 

"I've been looking for him, yes; I need to find him. I think he's in trouble, and he needs to be found." 

"Do the bad guys have him?" For all his teenage sophistication, he was as much a kid as—well, Vince. 

"The bad guys have him," Frank agreed. 

"But you're going to get him back," Drake said positively.

Frank wanted to say yes; he wanted to say yes almost as badly as he wanted to find Vinnie. But his son wasn't a child anymore; he was on his way to becoming a man, and he didn't need a father who told him lies about the world always being a good place.

"I've been trying for two years now," Frank said, trying to keep the emotion from his voice. He should say that the odds were slim-to-none that getting Vince back would mean rescuing him; he should say that, because Drake deserved the truth.

But he couldn't say it; he didn't believe Vince was dead. That was maybe the worst part of it: In Frank's mind, Vince was alive somewhere, held against his will, beaten, tortured, ra—

Frank wouldn't let his mind go there. Drake was watching him, reading God knew what on his face. "And I'll keep trying until I find him," he told his son. It wasn't a lie; it was a promise to Vince.

Drake nodded.

The dog had been patiently waiting for Drake to give him something more, but apparently watching him pick apart the sandwich had become too much for him. He stood up on his hind legs and nosed his way into the sandwich, going for the ham.

"Stop that!" Frank scolded the dog. "Get down right now!" The dog ignored him, and Frank took hold of his collar, and pulled him down.

"He doesn't know you're talking to him," Drake said.

"Who does he think I'm talking to?" Frank asked, keeping an eye on the little dog.

"Could be anybody. You didn't use his name."

"He doesn't have a name," Frank said, feeling strangely ashamed of this.

"I know. You have to give him one, and then you have to use it. Not giving him a name means you aren't really committed to keeping him," Drake said.

Frank had the feeling his son spent his spare time reading psychology books. _Probably trying to figure out what the hell's wrong with his parents, and who could blame him? I should be grateful he's still kid enough to be happy with a glass of Kool-Aid._ "All it means is, I haven't been able to think of a name," Frank said.

"You would if he was important to you. You've had him over a year now. He's afraid you're going to abandon him like his last people did," Drake said, and Frank wondered if he was really talking about himself.

"I wouldn't do that," Frank told him quietly. "I may not be the best—" There were so many words could have used in that spot: _father, son, husband, field director, dog owner,_ any of them would apply—that Frank couldn't use any of them. "I would never abandon him. Nobody's getting abandoned."

Drake nodded. "Maybe I could name him?" he suggested, and Frank wondered if he'd been wanting to ask this all along.

Maybe there hadn't been any undercurrent to their conversation at all; maybe it had all been in Frank's mind. He hoped so. "Yeah, that's a good idea. Why don't you give him a name?" he said.


End file.
